


oíche chiúin

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Christmas, Christmas Vacation, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge (Supernatural), Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Over the years, Dean has spent Christmas alone more often than he’s wanted.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 163
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	oíche chiúin

Over the years, Dean has spent Christmas alone more often than he’s wanted.

It’s sometimes not of his own free will, but more often or not, something comes up and Sam leaves, or a hunt splits them up, or someone ends up in the hospital. Fearing for his life, drugged up on morphine, unconscious for more than twenty-four hours—he’s run the gamut. There are an entire myriad of reasons, but in the end, Dean seems to always end up alone.

It never does make it easier, though, especially this year. This year, he sits alongside someone else’s hospital bed, hands fisted in prayer. A crucifix dangles from his grip, shaking with the force. Whispered words don’t work anymore, but it helps him feel better. Softly, Dean hears the hum of Christmas carols being sung on low through the speaker system; outside, snow falls, dusting the rooftops throughout Kansas City.

Castiel is supposed to be discharged in the morning. Just a broken foot, but something that his Grace can no longer heal. At the most, Dean gives him another month or two before the rest of it fades away, leaving nothing else in his body other than the things humans have. Bones, veins, blood. A soul. A beating heart. Castiel will have a nice scar, after the doctors pinned his bones back in place. Angel’s first battle scar. One day, this story will be hilarious.

For now, Dean prays while Castiel sleeps, breath shaking, shoulders tense. Wetness seeps through closed eyelids, spilling down his cheeks. They’ve had close encounters before, but not like this. Close is an understatement; he saw Castiel drop, saw a second werewolf launch at him, and he barely managed to get a shot off in time. Castiel was out for a long while, and when he woke up, all he could do was scream.

Dean can still hear it, if the room is quiet enough. If no nurses come by to check on them, if no one walks past carrying on a noisy conversation. In the corner, the television drones on quietly. A hand comes to rest over his own, and Dean ends his prayer, the rosary spilling onto the mattress. Castiel’s exhausted eyes find his, and a smile creeps over his lips. “You were praying.”

Dean scoffs. “Habit,” he says, wiping his face. Reaching over, he curls his fingertips into Castiel’s palm, the beads still warm, wrapped around his hand. “How’re you feeling?”

Castiel leans back, settling into the pillows. “I miss our bed,” he complains. Dean laughs and squeezes his hand. “How did the surgery go?”

“Good as new,” Dean confirms. He lifts the sheets over Castiel’s foot, exposing the mess of gauze wrapped around his ankle. “Should be able to walk in a few weeks, but you gotta keep it elevated. You’re gonna have to use crutches for a while.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Castiel says, which—he could be dead. Dean will take a broken ankle over having to burn Castiel any day. “I’m sorry you had to spend Christmas here. I know you’re partial to the holiday.”

Dean laughs and scoots back, pillowing his head on his arms. The mattress is nothing compared to the ones back at the bunker, but for now, it’s all they have. “It’s fine,” he says through a yawn. Gentle fingers pet through the hair at his temple, brushing it away from his face. “Go to sleep, Cas.”

Castiel smiles, closing his eyes. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Another yawn. Dean flips off the television and joins him. “Night, Cas.”

It only dawns on him seconds later, the gravity of what Castiel said. Over the years, Castiel has never been with them to celebrate Christmas, maybe once or twice in passing. Not that he and Sam ever celebrated much in the first place, but holidays typically pass without incident. Even their birthdays, if they even acknowledge them anymore.

But Christmas. How would Castiel know about that?

-+-

They don’t stop at the Bunker, not for more than a few minutes, anyway, only long enough to grab an overnight bag and head out again. Whitefish is too far of a drive in Castiel’s condition, and so is any other state with a decent motel. Instead, Dean heads to Colorado, to a cabin somewhere west of Boulder but east of Vail. He loses track of the roads after a while, content to drive with Castiel at his side. Castiel, who dozes on and off when the road flattens out, who watches snowflakes pepper the windshield, who lays his hand between them in the seat and waits for Dean to take it.

Whatever this thing is between them, it’s new. So new, that Dean still flinches whenever Castiel touches him in a way that isn’t strictly platonic. Once, Castiel kissed him, and Dean refused to look him in the eye for the rest of the day. After everything—the deathbed confessions, the weeks spent in recovery, the endless mourning until Castiel showed up one morning with an ultimatum—some mornings, Dean can barely touch him without shame.

He should be happy. Should be thrilled, but none of it feels real. Like maybe the rest of his life is a fever dream, and Sam actually burnt him on the pyre. Maybe in Heaven, his story continues on, unbeknownst to him. But Castiel assured him months ago that Heaven is reformed, and he would know it if he were dead. For one, Heaven doesn’t have barren stretches of roads with a definite end. According to Castiel, Heaven is what he wants, and right now, Dean wants a double bacon cheeseburger.

No such meal flies through the window. _Guess we’re stuck down here after all_.

Their cabin, when Dean pulls up hours later, sits on the mountainside overlooking a lake. Snow falls in sheets as he pulls into the garage; by morning, they’ll be stuck, but hopefully with power. “Alright, give me a second,” Dean says and steps onto the concrete. He pulls the crutches from the backseat and helps Castiel onto his feet. “Under your armpits, you just gotta put your hands—Yeah, there.”

Castiel takes a tentative step, keeping his booted foot lifted as he walks with Dean’s hand on his shoulder. No complaints, aside from a few hisses as he first gets his footing, but he moves with ease. Dean follows him inside, helping get him situated on the couch in front of the fireplace. From what he can tell, the entire main living area is one room, with the furniture pointed toward the hearth while the kitchen sits in the back, all dated appliances and a two-person dining table. The bedroom probably isn’t much bigger, but it’ll do for a few days.

Dean can’t even remember the last time they took a week off just to sit around and do nothing. No better time than now, he guesses. Sam is off with Eileen in Vermont, Jody and Donna and the kids are safe—all is right with the world.

And Castiel is at his side, bionic ankle and all.

Between Dean bringing in their bags and the cooler, Castiel somehow manages to worm his way onto the floor and start a fire. Logs pop and crackle, casting the slightest bit of light through the cabin and easing the chill in the air. Drained, Dean manages to place all of their food into either the pantry or the refrigerator before flopping down onto the couch. Castiel sits on the floor, his back to the cushions, and leans his head on Dean’s knee. Nearly eleven hours of driving from sunrise until now, and all Dean wants is to pass out for three days.

“You wanna hit the hay?” he asks.

Castiel nods and looks down at his boot. It’s supposedly to keep his foot stable, but Dean doesn’t see a use for it if he isn’t even allowed to walk on it. “Can you help me up?” Castiel asks, frustration in his voice.

Dean doesn’t question him, doesn’t attempt to throw in a joke just to make Castiel laugh. Instead, he kneels and helps Castiel stand, offering him the crutches. “C’mon. Bed’ll be a lot better than the floor.”

-+-

Dean didn’t start missing or skipping Christmases until he was in his mid-teens, when John would drag him away from whatever motel they holed up in to stake out barns or suburban houses. Most of the time, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset, not when lives were on the line and he had a job to finish. The older he got, though, the less John was in the picture, and the more Sam took his place.

Then Sam left, and Dean celebrated solitude by drinking himself sick and hiding in bed for days at a time.

But as far back as he can remember, he always talked to someone that day—complete strangers, whose names he can’t remember, who would come by and offer him a dinner plate from the restaurant up the street, or cookies, or one time, even several pairs of thermal socks. Only, whenever Dean tried to find them to thank them later, they were gone, no trace of them left.

Angels weren’t real. At the time, visitations were out of the question. But no monster on earth would offer him pleasantries and food, and never in his life has he ever met a stranger in a motel that gave him more than their name.

But it makes sense, for some strange reason.

Half-awake and barely thinking, Dean watches Castiel sleep with blankets pulled over their shoulders and pale gray light pouring in through the window. Stroking across his cheek, Dean brings his fingers through Castiel’s hair, the strands soft and a little too long. Years ago, he never thought that this would be where he’d end up, in bed with an angel, the same angel that confessed to him without ever expecting to hear those three words in return. Years ago, he thought he never would’ve made it past thirty, then forty—now, going on forty-three in a few months, he feels old in ways he never expected. His back aches, his knees creak when he walks, and his eyes aren’t what they used to be.

 _I’m finally getting old_ , he thinks, petting through the gray hairs lining Castiel’s temple. _And he’s right there with me_.

After a while, Dean crawls out of bed and goes through the motions of making coffee and gathering wood from the stack beside the fireplace. Mornings have always started slowly, especially in recent years, when he needs a straight shot of caffeine just to get out of bed. He gathers up some of the things he bought in town before they arrived last night—a few eggs and sausage, a quarter of a large bag of shredded potatoes—and throws them into a skillet. Across the cabin, a door closes and the sink runs.

It all feels so mundane, so normal. In the past, his training would’ve forced him to line the windows and doors with salt. In the present, he takes the skillet off the stove and loads everything into multiple tortillas, rolling them into shape. Castiel emerges after a few minutes, the tips of his hair wet and dark circles under his eyes. Gathering everything onto a plate, Dean asks, “You wash your hair in the sink?”

“It was easier than getting in the shower,” Castiel says. He pulls out a barstool and sits, leaning his crutches up against the bar. “I still smell like the barn we were in.”

Right—they never really stopped long enough to let Castiel shower. “I’ll wrap it for you later,” Dean offers, and Castiel nods. Ripping a few paper towels from the holder hanging from the cabinets, Dean brings over another couple paper plates. “I made burritos, if you’re hungry. Figured I’d cook instead of us ordering takeout every day.”

Castiel smiles, his cheeks flushing just the barest edge of pink. “Do you have any painkillers?”

Dean freezes, eyes locked on the countertop. Of course he has them, but why would Castiel need—”Are you alright?”

To that, Castiel physically sags. Looking at him, Dean can tell the subtle differences now, the natural slump of Castiel’s shoulders, the way he chews his lip when he thinks. He fidgets, never really sitting still, and he sighs as he eats, like he can actually taste the food rather than choking it down. Stranger still is the fact that his eyes are duller, no longer the vibrant blue Dean has known for the last almost fourteen years, but darker, more…

 _Human_.

“I felt it leave last night,” Castiel says, confirming all of Dean’s fears. He sets his burrito down, half-eaten, and covers Dean’s hand with his own. “I told you the risks when I came back.”

“I know.” Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. “I know, but… Wow.” A laugh bubbles its way free. “You’re the real deal now, huh?”

“I guess so,” Castiel says, hiding his smile in another bite. “Or unfortunately, seeing as how my foot is still broken.”

He shakes his head. “Could be worse.”

Castiel agrees, talking around his breakfast. “I think I’d rather recover here than live without you for your remaining years.”

Dean lifts his burrito, ignoring the heat setting up shop in his cheeks. Even as a human, Castiel knows how to get to him. He knows just what makes Dean uncomfortable, then how to ease him into it. _We’re in love_ , Dean remembers. He shouldn't be afraid, yet he is, and probably always will be. “Amen to that.”

Castiel’s smile could light the room. “Amen.”

-+-

The bay window in the bathroom looks out into the forest, overlooking the snow blanketing the trees and the valley deep below. Though the rest of the house might be modest, the bathroom makes up for it, with heated white tiles and wallpaper, and a bathtub large enough to fit two grown men. Those two grown men, being Dean and his boyfriend slash former angel, nestled against him with his foot hanging over the edge. The doctors gave him a walking boot and a smaller brace, mostly for stabilization while he sits around.

Now, Castiel drifts off while Dean peppers his neck with kisses, warm water pooled up to their chests. Any other time, and Dean would be out there in the weather, potentially catching pneumonia while he attempts to build a snowman. But here, he has Castiel, warm and safe in his arms.

“When I was in my twenties, I met a lady,” he says, low, palming Castiel’s stomach. “She brought me a plate of cookies Christmas morning, ‘cause apparently, she saw me hanging out on the curb the night before, but didn't see where I’d parked. Next year, I was at a motel in Memphis, and this guy next door dropped off a boxed lunch from Boston Market outside my door.”

“They sound like nice people,” Castiel hums, leaning his head back.

“They were,” Dean says, wistful. “Only, when we tried to thank them later, they were gone. And the people at the front desk didn’t remember anyone booking a room that matched their descriptions.”

Castiel stiffens, just the reaction Dean was looking for. “I feel like you’re leading into a question.”

“Just curious.” Dean kisses his temple, then makes his way down Castiel’s cheek, then to the spot beneath Castiel’s ear that melts him every time. “You been spying on me, Cas?”

Low, Castiel sighs. He cups the back of Dean’s head, urging him closer. “It’s a complicated story,” he says. Dean nibbles at the juncture of his throat, drawing out a whimper. “We weren’t supposed to meet for several years, but I watched you, when you were alone.”

“Privacy, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel tugs his hair just enough to sting. “My point being. I didn’t like knowing that you were sad, especially on the most holy of days. Though, you celebrated in the modern sense, with gift-giving and spending time with your family. But you were alone, and you ached without your father, your brother. You longed to see Mary, to be consoled.” A breath. Dean nuzzles his nose into Castiel’s neck, breathing him in, settling his heart. “I just wanted to help.”

“You did.” Dean hugs him beneath the water, fighting back the tears in his eyes. “Trust me, even little things mean a lot. I didn't go hungry, and I got to talk to someone that wasn’t myself.”

“I wanted to stay.” Castiel drops his hand and covers Dean’s, lacing their fingers together. “I didn't understand why I was drawn to you at the time. I didn't know you. All I knew of you was your destiny and your lineage, but not who you were, your struggles, your apprehensions.” He waves in the vague direction of the window, splashing water over the edge of the tub. “I felt your longing, and I wondered, what could happen to a human that would cause them to suffer in isolation?”

“Life,” Dean says, quiet. Can hums in agreement. “It sucks, but… Things like that happen every day. I wasn't the exception. It’s just… circumstances. Dad wasn't father of the year, and Mom never got the chance. Sam was off making the most out of what he could.” A sigh. “He would’ve been a great lawyer.”

Castiel pinches his thigh; Dean hides his face. “Don’t admonish yourself for what happened in the past. You should live in the present and think of your past fondly, because you lived through it. You survived, Dean.”

“So did you.” Slowly, Dean pets Castiel’s leg up to his knee, kneading the fleshy underside. “How are you, really, Cas?”

Castiel tilts his head back, baring the long expanse of his throat. Dean wants to kiss it, has wanted to for years. “I’ve been better,” he says. “But I’ll get used to it. The aches and pains, the indigestion, the sleepless nights… It’s part of the experience that I’m eager to learn.”

Smiling, Dean kisses his cheek. “Not a great teacher, but I’m sure we can work something out.”

“You belittle yourself.” Castiel turns just enough to catch Dean’s lips, his kiss chaste with the barest edge of lust. “You embody the struggles of humanity, and you overcame everything that was put in your path. I think you’re well-qualified.”

In all of his life, Dean has ever me anyone as honest as Castiel. Almost forty-three years old, and he finally found that one person—the one person who stayed, who refused to leave, come what may. “You’re too nice, you know that?”

Another kiss, and Dean falls into him, tears slipping free. “It’s one of my charms.”

-+-

The pain only gets worse as the day goes on, leaving Castiel relegated to the couch with a heating pad wrapped around his ankle. Dean refuses to feed him the opiates the surgeon prescribed, and instead tends to Castiel with Ibuprofen and stew, and talking to him to keep his mind off it. The first few days are the worst, Dean knows. The first week after Sam took him home from the hospital, he swore he’d never walk again and begged for the stash he keeps for absolute emergencies. Sam refused to cave, thankfully.

Some days, he can still feel it, a phantom ache in his gut that he’ll probably remember until the day he dies. Castiel’s bones will ache when the weather gets cold, and he’ll complain about arthritis and hoard Aspercreme like it’s his best friend. What a pair they make, two grumpy old men, living out the paradise they created for themselves.

The day passes by slowly, without the aid of television or modern technology to keep them occupied. Dean reclines in an armchair and reads, and Castiel sleeps, facing the fireplace and wrapped in several blankets. Occasionally, Dean puts his paperback down and just watches him, making sure he’s breathing and that he doesn’t roll off and fall onto his face. He really is beautiful, terrifyingly so. He saw Castiel at his most holy once, with the wrath of God trapped beneath his skin; now, he snores, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion that he’s an octopus in bed when he isn’t restraining himself.

And honestly, he can’t wait.

Dean climbs out of his chair without putting the footrest down and wanders into the bedroom. From his duffel at the foot of the bed, he pulls out a wrapped package from the side pocket, two inches square. Castiel gave him all the love in the world. The least Dean can do is this.

In front of the fire, Dean finds Castiel blinking blearily outside, rubbing an eye. Heart in his throat, he drops to his knees at Castiel’s side, drawing him into a kiss. “Making up for lost time?”

“I’m recuperating,” Castiel says with a pout. “What time is it?”

“Four,” Dean chuckles. He shifts until he can sit without his knees aching and hands Castiel the box, wrapped in red foil and adorned with a hand-tied bow. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Firelight dyes the tears springing to Castiel’s eyes. He doesn't try to hide them, too occupied with unwrapping it as meticulously as he can, almost like he’s afraid to tear the paper. Inside, Castiel finds a blue leather box—and as he opens the lid, Dean watches the first tear fall. “Dean—”

“Just wanted you to remember,” Dean says, steady as he can muster. Taking the box, he pulls out the ring—a silver band, melted down from one of the many angel blades they keep in the armory back home—and places it on Castiel’s finger, the fit snug. Just what he hoped. Seeing it on Castiel makes his heart leap into his throat. “You—you gave me everything, Cas. Even when you didn't have to, even when I… You were there. Always been there, and I never really thanked you.” He sniffles, wiping his eyes. “Never really got to tell you I loved you either.”

“Dean.” Castiel strokes his cheek, the cold silver of the band smooth across his stubble; Dean closes his eyes, jaw tense. “All I ever wanted was to be by your side. I wanted you to know how I felt, even if you never returned my sentiments. But in a way, I always knew.” Leaning up on an elbow, he presses a kiss to Dean’s lips. “I like hearing you say it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap.” Ducking his head, Dean laughs. “Thanks, Cas. For everything, just… I wanted you to know that.”

“I know.” Another kiss; Castiel keeps close, their foreheads touching. “I wanted to stay.”

“I want you to stay.” With shaking hands, he cradles Castiel’s cheeks. “Please. That’s all I want.”

“Okay.” Castiel swallows, then laughs. “Okay, Dean.”

Dean crawls into his lap, mindful of Castiel’s foot, and crowds Castiel into the pillows. Castiel clings to him, nails raking up Dean’s spine; he tastes human now, more like mouthwash and less like licking a battery. Heat surges through his veins, but not from lust. From the love building in his chest, overflowing into every kiss, every touch.

Snow falls, the fire crackles in the hearth, and the box falls to the floor, snapping shut.

-+-

_Dean falls asleep early that night, wrapped in blankets with his face wet. A few too many calls later, and he curls up under the sheets, his breaths hiccupping every few seconds. His anguish is so potent, Castiel feels it in the air, filling the room like smoke. Leaving him to suffer is a crime, but it’s one Castiel has to commit. Dean still has another few years before destiny intervenes, and then—and then, Castiel can touch him, can figure out what’s going on inside his head._

_For the moment, all Castiel can do is watch. At some point, he leaves his corner and stands at Dean’s side. If only Dean could know he was there—could know someone was with him, to ease the ache in his chest. He tempts fate and sits, his back to Dean’s, barely an inch between them. Dean whimpers and throws the blankets over his head, and Castiel unfurls his wings, draping them over Dean’s form. Dean can’t feel him, but it’s contact, enough to sate Castiel’s curiosity._

_Something grabs him, though, something equally as curious and even more insistent. Looking over his shoulder, Castiel watches Dean’s soul thrash and spiral, clinging to his Grace like a lifeline. For the first time in his life, Castiel can’t breathe. Joy rushes through him, accompanied by terror. Dean’s fear, sentient and grappling for a sense of purpose, for someone to absolve him from a crime he hasn’t committed._

_Castiel can’t help him, not yet. He can’t interfere with the proceedings, but he can stay here and give Dean some sense of peace, up until his final moments. Soon, he tells himself, and lets a sliver of his Grace pour free. Dean’s soul tangles with it, knotting the two together. First contact._

_In that moment, Castiel knows he’ll never escape, and won’t ever try._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I finished this like... a week or two ago and completely forgot I wrote it afterward, but here you go! It's super fluffy I love it ;A; Thanks as always to Bexy for betaing! My canon is one where Dean lives on as an old man and complains about his back every day, as do we all.
> 
> Title is from the Enya song (Silent Night).
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
